


A confession to trounce all others

by Eureka234



Category: Lolita (1997), Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
Genre: Attempted Murder, Diary/Journal, Drabble, One Shot, POV First Person, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 21:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10396620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eureka234/pseuds/Eureka234
Summary: Humbert wrote many diary entries that were destroyed. This is one. Drabble.





	

Gentlemen and gentlewomen of the jury, I declare to you, in inviolate detail, the truth of the circumstances surrounding Mrs Haze departure from her precious piazza, the sanctuary of Lo's bedroom, and her life. 'There is something more, Humbert Humbert?', you may ask. Yes, there is always more to uncover, more candor from deceptiveness to decipher from this pile of detached notes I have scrunched in my pocket. It was not a phone call that alerted me to the death of that cow, no, for that would be the _truly_ ridiculous detail about it. The truth is I murdered her.

There. I write it, perfectly legible, before me now, for your reading pleasure, patient reader. I, Professor Humbert Humbert, announce that I murdered Mrs Charlotte Haze, my former wife and momentary snatcher of my true love.

A truth which you shall never see again or read in the first place, because you must understand I would be an utter fool to admit guilty to such a crime, especially when I require your trust during the recounting of this turbulent tale.

My perception was not skewed by alcohol or other mind altering substances, like the cigarettes that Mrs Haze regularly devoured between her teeth, as she did with the cracks of my dried, lovelorn lips. I, while perfectly lucid and alert, tore her soul from her body. I did it carefully, deliberately, and with much pleasure.

Perhaps then, without a doubt, I have reached the zenith of real madness.

And when this entry is completed in its fancy prose style I shall also endeavour that it is burned and destroyed, so it cannot be found and reassembled from the pile of ashes, that not even a period or a comma can be identified in the dust.

You are warned, foul, scrutinizing reader, that you will never know the story in its entirety. I will take it to my grave. I lie again; I will not take it that far. That would be too kind, a holiday or reward for literature. It shall reside as an entirely hypothetical idea, a whisper in the wind, an exhalation so gentle it cannot be felt on the skin.

Yet still, the brush of nothingness provides one with an array of goosebumps. I know you feel it, judgemental reader. Do not lie to me, not to the accused Humbert Humbert.

You may wonder, if you have not sliced down any confidence in me, why I write this in any form. There are times when I enjoy reliving such wretched and depraved moments. You may scorn me for taking pleasure in violence, but is it any better to you, with your television screens, mystery novels or your comic books? And is gently plucking the petals of a child's virginity and letting them flutter into the pond any nicer than the friend you intoxicated with the intention of coercing her? It still creates ripples that cannot be ignored. There was a disruption in the still waters.

I suppose it is best I list the facts of what happened in the household, on the afternoon of the murder. I highly doubt you desire indulgent, explicit pages on the subject. Please amend the record with the following facts. I will abstain from commenting with subjective drivel.

As I have described previously, it happened shortly after Charlotte forcefully opened my drawers and retrieved my journal. She described me as a monster, a despicable creature, and that I will never see her precious Lolita again.

I did, for a moment, or twenty minutes, attempt to allay her upset. I told her she was mistaken. Then I recommended quite calmly that she must desire a drink. Then –and this is where the situation is different than what I had initially noted- she said, "I'd be happier if you drank poison."

And she had that dispirited gleam in her eyes. I remember it clearly. How I despised it.

"Me?" I repeated, surprised, "My dear, Charlotte, if I am not mistaken the one who would rather drink poison is you."

Then she cried and fussed, oh, it was the worst performance I had ever seen. It was far noisier, and far less entertaining than Lo. There were many tears, so many I dare not try count them. I waited quietly, and I locked the door. She would not leave, I decided. Perhaps I would strangle the last of the tears from her eyes. Perhaps I would press a pillow to her face.

"Who am I kidding?" Mrs Haze said. She brought her hands angrily to the Heaven's as if to say 'Death, find me', "You're right, Hum. I've been a depressed woman for years. It has never stopped, no matter how many pills the doctor's give me. I thought you would make it better, but you've… _now_ it is worse than ever."

"I'm sorry you are so upset," I said.

Charlotte was content to look away. To alert Mr Death, I am certain. "I don't care what your opinion is! It's probably all lies. I don't know how to trust your word, your face... your name probably isn't real either. God Almighty, what am I to do?"

"I know you have no intention to listen to me," I said, "and you have every right not to. However, there are a handful of sleeping pills still left in your jar. Considering how low you have been feeling, I'm wondering if you would like to take them?"

"Take them _all_?" Charlotte repeated, flabbergasted.

"Yes," I replied.

"You're insane! You want to kill me. You really do want to kill me!" Mrs Haze shouted, "I knew it. That journal was all true. You disgusting-"

"Please darling, don't be rash. That is not what I'm implying," I said, "I am merely thinking of what would make you happy. You said you are extremely sad, that you have never felt this sad before. I would like to suggest you put an end to it, so you can find your own peace. That's all. Like a sick pet you desire to end their misery. The mercy we provide to our loved ones."

"I can't be happy if I'm _dead_!" Charlotte retorted, "I see what you mean, but I don't trust anything you say anymore. No. I've decided. I'm going! Don't stop me!"

She rose to her feet. Irritated –yes, I was invidious- I reached to the bedside and picked up the sleeping pills. "At least take one or two, mon cherie. It might calm you down."

The woman stared angrily to me, to the door, and then held out her palm. "Give me the bottle. If I'm taking any, I'll do it!"

"Very well," I concurred, placing the sleeping pills back in the jar and handing it over. She took it with a firm grip. The thought of pillows in faces was faraway, I admit.

Then there was a fuss about how I had locked the door, I said it was an accident, and she went downstairs. I followed.

Rather naively I admit, I thought the situation could be rectified, as she had stopped screeching.

She grabbed her cardigan and a cigarette from one of its pockets. "I'm going for a stroll."

"Would you like me to come with you?" I inquired.

She was crying less now. "No. It's so lovely outside. I need to... to get in touch with nature. On my _own_."

I suspected she was going to the Police and I had every intention to stop her. I grabbed her arm. "I insist I come with you. You cannot smoke and take sleeping pills at the same time. It would be irresponsible of me to put you in danger. You're a danger to yourself."

She tried to break free. "I'm not! I wouldn't do something so stupid, like write a diary full of-"

"I know."

I did not know what nonsense she was talking about.

"I'll go to a doctor! And I'll tell them I'm depressed, because my husband is a the worst person I've ever met! That he's thought about destroying my Dolores!"

"I can imagine what the Doctor would say," I growled.

"No! You're no replacement."

"I most certainly am," I said, and I kicked her legs. "Or I will be, in a moment."

I will spare you the gory details, reader, but know, the jar of sleeping pills had one unconsumed when I was done with her. She did not take them willingly. If you dare ask why one remained is because it rolled far away on the floor because the cow moved it away with her obnoxious flailing.

Then, in a moment of weakness where I luxuriated in my victory, she escaped. She ran. And I chased her, to stop her, to prevent the neighbours seeing.

I failed.

The car that hit her did not kill her. As far as I was concerned, it was certainly an abdominal rupture that did it, what she would have died from hours or days later if she had not been submitted to such a brutal accident.

Lenient members of the jury, let it be duly noted that I murdered her first.


End file.
